A dangerous disadvantage
by capricorn5
Summary: On a rainy night Irene Adler, carrying her and Sherlock's son, leaves the baby on the threshold of 221B Baker Street, fleeing right after to ensure her own protection. Now, eight years later, she returns to make amends, but Sherlock hasn't forgiven her for leaving him and their son behind. (To the guest who asked, yes, this was based on Doomslock's wonderful gifs :) )


Sherlock opened the door of the flat and the person standing on the threshold was the last one he expected to see. He stood there, without moving, looking at her figure framed by the door, the street behind her just a blur to his eyes. He felt it as his brain stopped working for a moment and he had to bring it back, to re-start the gears. He considered closing the door, but he was just a little curious, enough to hear what she had to say, enough to ask the question.

"What are you doing here?"

His tone was cold, with a total lack of emotion. Irene Adler heard it, felt the disgust on his voice. After years without seeing her, despite all that had happened, she was expecting a different kind of welcome. Maybe not a warm one, but she was waiting for a look of surprise on his face, which he would later try to disguise. There was no such look. There wasn't even hate; it felt as if she was only a mildly annoying thing. She didn't like that.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Sherlock stood there a while longer, trying to think of his options, but he finally gave in. He opened the door a little more and she walked in. She smelled of tobacco and cheap perfume, quite different from the last time he had seen her, when he had been her saviour and had allowed her to run away and start a new life. But the smells she brought into the house were the only noticeable difference. There were still no wrinkles marking her perfect pale skin and she had tied her hair, the way she always did when she meant business. Her determined expression, her fearless look was also the same. Irene Adler had indeed been the woman who had beaten him. The woman. But he had planned on never setting eyes on her again. He didn't direct her to a chair, because he didn't want her to stay long. There were things to explain, things he wanted to know; or at least he used to, they didn't matter anymore. Her presence in the apartment was the only thing that intrigued him that he wanted answered right now.

"What are you doing here?" he asked for the second time that evening, but this time he would demand an answer.

Irene gazed upon him, trying to remember that last night, right before she had escaped and sought a fugitive life. With his help she had managed to escape certain death and she had rebuilt a life away from the spotlight, away from those who might want to hurt her. Sherlock had looked for her on the following years to no avail. She had made sure her whereabouts remained unknown to make sure they were both secure. She knew there was no use in trying to avoid his question, and she would have to get to it sooner or later.

"I came to see him."

Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head. She had no right to ask that of him, no right to show up here now, after eight years. And, most certainly, she had no right to see him.

"No." was all Sherlock said.

Irene was ready for that answer; she knew he would be difficult. And, in truth, could she blame him? She would have reacted the same way.

"Please."

Begging didn't usually work with him, but she was desperate. She understood the mistake she had done, but at the time she had thought it was for the best. And it probably had been.

"I'm the child's mother. I have a right to see him." She paused, staring away from him. "I made a mistake."

Sherlock smirked, a look of incredibility spread on his cold features. He looked her in the eye.

"You cannot choose when you want to be a mother. You practically left the boy on my doorstep."

Irene's eyes welled up, remembering that night.

It had been raining all day and she had managed to sneak out of the house. Everything was arranged and with the help of an old friend of hers she would be able to flee again, to seek safety away from London. Coming to town had been a risky step, but she had to do that in order to guarantee her own safety later. It had been a safe decision, and she hadn't done it only for herself. Her son was at risk as well. The person who had agreed to help her had been quite clear on his instructions. He would take her and only her. He would provide her with anything she might need, but the child had to stay. She knew that even if she decided to stay and take the risk, that they could be found; and then it would be more than only her own life at stake. Plus, she knew being found was just a matter of time. It hadn't been easy. To put on a disguise and leave the warmth of what had been her home for more than six months and depart, leaving everything behind. But when she had lost her mobile phone's information to Mycroft Holmes, she knew surviving would be a struggle. And she knew now that this was something she had to do.

The rain was now falling harder and the wind made the use of an umbrella impossible. Carrying the baby was struggle enough by itself. She managed to open the door with the help of one of her hair pins and placed the baby inside, sheltered from the rain. She then rang the doorbell. She meant to get out of sight before anyone could see her. She had left a letter addressed to Sherlock Holmes, with sufficient details and a birth certificate, not more than that. But, maybe because he was expecting someone or because of the lack of a case, Sherlock had stormed down the stair case at a swift pace as soon as the door rang and had seen her. She waved goodbye and disappeared into the night right after, never to see him again.

Sherlock saw Irene disappearing around a corner and his first instinct was to run after her. But something on the floor made him stop. There was a black blanket placed there, coiled, like a bundle. He picked it up carelessly and as he realised it was heavier than what he expected the cry began. He closed the door immediately and picked up the bundle more carefully this time. With his hands shaking he opened the bundle. What he found there was not something he was expecting. The little boy had his eyes wide open now and in them Sherlock saw his own shade of green. But there was more. Even at the faint light, he could see a hair dark as a crow's feathers, curly and deranged, little drops of water making it look thicker than it was. For a moment, while the baby shut up with his presence and was busy suckling his thumb, Sherlock stood petrified there, unable to decide what to do. He was alone; John was gone to a conference and would come back much later that night. Mrs. Hudson was out for the weekend, on a romantic date with a pianist. He took a deep breath and tried to steady his own legs, allowing himself to pace up the stairs. The little boy was now looking at him with eyes wide open. Sherlock placed him on the couch, leaving the blanket around him. He felt something as he put him down. Among the fabric was a piece of paper. A letter. A simple envelope, addressed to him. He opened it up with trembling hands and read it.

"Dear Sherlock,

I know this will surprise you and I apologise that I haven't made you know before. There was a chance any of my letters could be traced and I didn't want to take the risk. There isn't much explaining and I might have to try to convince you that this little boy is as much mine as it is yours, but the resemblance he shares with you makes it quite clear, I believe. That last night we shared together, when you saved me and allowed me to continue to live a while longer, had a great meaning to me. I never had the chance to tell you this, but here is the truth. When I found out about my own pregnancy I was torn between amazement and fear, between the happiness to carry your child and the angst to have to keep it for myself. When he was born and I saw all your features in his beautiful face, I know it had all been worth it. He is a lovely child. Only cries when he is hungry or afraid – he has been afraid quite often with me and the life I lead – and he likes to hear me sing; maybe you can play the violin to calm him down sometimes, I know he would like it.

But I have put myself in danger again; I stood for too long in the same place, whishing it was possible to keep from attracting attention, planning to keep a low profile and be able to move on with my life incognito. Unfortunately someone found me, and with that I was offered a choice: stay and risk my death again, or leave and save myself, planning ahead new locations, and new lives. As you might have guessed by my actions, I have chosen the later. Hamish – that's his name, maybe you can make John his godfather? – will never be safe if I carry him around with me, and I don't want him to lead the same type of life I do. I want him to be safe, to be able to have friends and live a normal life. Don't think it isn't hard to leave him behind – God knows the reason I am doing this is entirely because of him. And I know that there isn't anyone who can keep him as safe as you. You must be scared, the same way I was when I had to take care of him with no help nor guidance, but I am sure you will be able to figure him out. There is no other place he should be, if not next to his father, if he can't be next to me.

Please, remember that he is not responsible for my actions, and if you keep any grudge against one of us, may it be against me. I don't mind. But Hamish deserves to be loved and I know you can love him. And you know that as well, even if you can't see it right now.

This is the last time you will hear from me, please burn this letter after you read it; I would like for Hamish to have a little something from his mother, but it is too risky to keep a proof of his connection to me. I know questions will arise and I trust you to silent them the best way.

And because I may not have a chance to say this again and there will be no proof after you burn this, please know that I love you. I have always loved you and I am sure I always will. There were many nights in my life, as you well know, but the night I spent with you meant something. And, to be fair, I had never been able to give my heart before, but I gave it to you.

If you allow me to ask you for a last favour, tell Hamish I love him too. Nothing breaks my heart more than imagining my life without him and the thought of him not knowing how much his mother loves him.

With all my love to both of you,

Irene"

Sherlock put the letter down and looked at Hamish, who was now fast asleep, breathing quietly, as if the world around him was made of sweet dreams and music.

Sherlock's mind returned to the present, the memory of that night still vivid. There was no way of describing how much he hated Irene on that night and from that night on. No matter what she had written, nothing erased the fact that she had left her son. Sherlock, who always thought children were just a waste of space, had taken Hamish and made him his responsibility. Irene could have her reasons, but they would never be enough to excuse her actions.

"Get out." Sherlock commanded.

He wasn't sure anymore why he had allowed her to come in in the first place. But Irene's eyes were focusing on something behind his back.

"Hamish." She said, no more than a whisper.

Sherlock turned around. Leaning against the kitchen door, half concealed by the wall, was Hamish, curiosity all over his face.

"Hamish, please go to your room. Papa is talking with a client and it's private and important."

But Hamish didn't move. Sherlock wasn't sure how much of the conversation he had overheard because his son had become an expert in sneaking around the house without being noticed or heard.

Irene gave a step forward but Sherlock threw her a look of warning. Without words, she pleaded again for the second time that night. He shook his head.

"Hamish, I told you to go to your room. Now, go."

The tone on his father's voice had changed and Hamish recognised it. There was no room to retort, he accepted the order and paced up the stairs swiftly. Sherlock approached the steps and made sure the door was closed. He then came back to the living room.

"Why won't you let me talk to him?"

Irene's eyes were filled with tears that spilled down her rosy cheeks.

"What are you planning on telling him? Are you ready to admit that you left him so many years ago because you were too selfish to care about anyone else but yourself?"

The words took Irene by surprise.

"It's not like that. I had no choice. He would be in danger with me!" she needed him to understand.

"Maybe he would." Sherlock said. "But you had eight whole years to make an appearance. And you never did. Why now?" he asked, just to continue right after, not allowing her to answer. "You know what, I don't even care about your reasons. I raised Hamish all by myself and not even for a second did I feel the need to have you here. We can very well go on without you, just like until now. I am not going to explain to Hamish that his mother, maybe because she felt terribly guilty and has nothing else to lose now, decided to finally show up and get to know him, thinking things could go back to something they never had the chance to become. Explanations are hard enough as it is, Irene. I have raised him and I will not give him up."

Irene knew that was a lost battle. She knew that he had beaten her. He would protect Hamish from her blindingly and there was nothing she could do about it. She had tried; it didn't make any difference, but at least she had tried.

She came closer and held his pulse, the same electric feeling she had felt so long ago there, untouched and unchanged. He moved his own hand away from hers and looked her straight in the eyes, the message implied, the invitation to leave.

"I still love you both." She said, assuming she had nothing to lose. "After all this time."

And without other word she walked away, turning her back on him and disappearing into the night again. With the image of her little boy as he was now on her mind, it had been worth the try.

Sherlock saw her leaving and he closed the door behind her. He checked to make sure Hamish was still in his room and he opened the drawer of his own desk. There, among old papers he found what he was looking for. He removed the letter from its envelope and read it once again. Maybe he should have burnt it.

"What is that Papa?"

Sherlock put the letter away, startled and turned to his son.

"Nothing, Hamish. That is nothing of importance."

His son came closer to him, pondering if he should ask.

"Who was that lady? She was crying."

Sherlock sat on the couch, bringing Hamish with him. He placed an arm on top of his shoulders.

"That was nobody you should worry about."

"But she wasn't a client." It was an affirmation.

"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked. He had never lied to his son and he could see him recognising a lie now.

"Well, first of all she was interacting with you with a familiarity that no client has shown before. Of course she could be someone you know and still a client, but the way you were approaching her denoted that even though you know her you weren't pleased to see her. Then, there were her clothes. They were of good quality but used, mended in many places. A client would have to have money to come to you and the way she smelled was not of someone who has a lot of money; cheap perfume. On the other hand, she seemed like someone with good taste, someone who was in a good position in life at some point. That might not seem of importance but you don't really relate with high society on a regular basis, and you knew this woman. If she was a client, you would have made all this remarks to her and you didn't. Plus, it seemed that the only thing she was looking for was me."

"How much of the conversation did you hear?" Sherlock asked. Sometimes, the skills that he had passed to his own son worked against him and he could now understand why some people were annoyed with them.

"I heard the bit where you told her to leave. You said get out and there was another reason why I am sure she was not a client; when someone is boring and you tell them to leave you are never polite, just angry. With her there was a hint of respect in all that anger."

Sherlock wasn't sure what to say and Hamish saw that in his hopeless expression. He hugged his father and got up.

"It's okay." He said, before retiring to his room. "I know who she is."

Sherlock was still looking at him, awaiting a reaction but Hamish didn't seem to have one to show.

"And how are you feeling about that?"

"You are talking like Uncle John now." Hamish remarked, smiling. He took a deep breath. "I would like to know the story and her reasons. You never told me and I never wanted to ask. Uncle John said you would tell me when you were ready." He thought for a moment. "I think I am willing to listen to her and try to understand her reasons. Forgive her. And maybe you should, too."

And with that he made his way up to his room and disappeared, leaving Sherlock with his own thoughts. He read the letter again, dwelling with words and feelings. He put on his coat and checked on Hamish before leaving the house. Finding her again was not going to be easy and he just hoped he wasn't too late. He wondered why he was giving her a second chance on this but realised that, after all these years, he already knew the answer.


End file.
